Page 65 of To Love And To Cherish (Pride And Prejudice Variation #3)

The morning found Colonel Fitzwilliam seated at the foot of his cousin’s bed, a book in hand and a troubled expression upon his face.

Anne lay pale and wan upon her pillows, her hair a dark spill against the linen, her breathing shallow yet even.

The sight of her so diminished stirred in him a mixture of pity and guilt, pity that she should suffer so, and guilt that he had never, until now, taken a more active interest in her welfare.

He had known her all his life, yet had thought of her chiefly as an invalid, fragile, and reserved, a little shadow in her mother’s house.

But as he sat there, watching the faint rise and fall of her chest, the thought struck him forcibly: I have failed her.

I should have been her advocate long before now.

By mid-morning, Anne roused herself and, for the first time in days, asked for water.

He rose at once, poured it into a porcelain cup, and carried it to her bedside.

She reached out her hands, small, feverish, and delicate, and placed them over his as he tipped the cup to her lips.

Her fingers lingered there as she drank, and their heads drew close.

Her eyes, clear and deep as a forest pool, met his, and for the briefest instant, he felt as though he might lose himself in their depths.

He wondered why he had never before noticed the fine curve of her cheekbones or the sweep of her dark lashes.

When she had finished, he set the cup aside and asked, in a voice made unexpectedly gentle, “I have my book with me. Would reading help distract you?”

“If you please,” she murmured.

From the breast pocket of his coat, he withdrew a small, well-worn volume of Shakespeare’s comedies and began to read. She smiled faintly at one jest and even chuckled at another, but when he glanced up a few minutes later, she had fallen asleep.

Later in the day, the maid brought a cup of willow-bark tea to ease her fever. He leaned over her, touched her shoulder, and said softly, “Anne, you must wake and take this; it will help.” She opened her eyes, wincing.

“I hope it will help with this dreadful headache as well,” she whispered.

Supporting her with one arm, he held the cup to her mouth.

Her hands again closed over his, guiding the angle, and he found himself absurdly conscious of their shape, slender, graceful, and altogether lovely.

The thought followed, unbidden, that her feet must be equally delicate; he checked himself at once and returned his attention to the matter at hand.

By the time the maid returned with a tray for him, a bowl of rich stew, and freshly baked bread, Anne declared she could eat nothing. He persuaded the servant to fetch a cup of chicken broth for her instead, knowing it might tempt her more than heavy fare.

“I will not drink it,” she insisted. “The very thought turns my stomach.”

He merely raised an eyebrow and began to eat his own meal at the small table by the window. When the maid entered with the broth, he carried it to her and said with quiet resolve, “Cousin, you must try. I shall help you.”

Her eyes met his, reading the determination there, and she sighed. “Very well, but stand ready to leap aside, for I feel I may be sick.”

He grinned. “I shall take my chances.”

In the end, she drank the whole cup and looked faintly astonished not to have suffered for it. He returned to his reading, and she fell asleep again, this time sleeping until evening. When she woke, her fever had broken.

“How do you feel?” he asked at once.

“As though I have turned a corner,” she said. “The headache is less, my joints do not ache so miserably, and I can breathe without that dreadful weight on my chest.”

“And you are no longer conversing with the dead?” he teased.

Her eyes widened. “That truly happened? I thought it was only a dream. I saw my father, and my uncle Henry, and then I saw you, riding away on my mare, Bitsy. Do you remember her?”

“Bitsy?” He frowned in thought. “Describe her.”

“She was chestnut, with a black mane and tail, an Arabian, small but spirited.”

“Ah, yes, I remember. A fine creature. What became of her?”

“She lived to the age of eight-and-twenty, but colic took her at last. The farrier was obliged to put her down.”

“Do you ride another?”

“No. My mother allows me the phaeton, since Fitzwilliam approves, but otherwise I remain indoors.”

Something in her tone stirred Darcy’s warning in his mind, and he said slowly, “Anne… have you ever feared that your mother sought to make you ill?”

She turned sharply toward him. “My mother? You think she might wish me harm?”

“I do not know what to think,” he replied. “But the grey powder you have been taking contains mercury, which can kill. The milk thistle tincture may help your body expel the poison, and warm milk might also aid you. Did your mother know the powder was dangerous?”

Anne considered. “If she did, she never showed it. I think it was only a mistake; the peddler claimed it was a strengthening tonic.”

“Let us say it was,” Richard allowed. “But tell me, has she ever given you anything that made you ill?”

Anne’s gaze drifted to the window. “I have been ill for as long as I can remember.”

“Has she always had you take medicines?”

“Yes. Always.”

“And was there ever a time when you took nothing?”

She was silent a long moment. “Only once. When I stayed at Pemberley the summer Mother was expecting. She sent me away to Matlock House so as not to be troubled by me, and Uncle George took me on to Pemberley to meet you and Fitzwilliam. She had packed the medicines, but I never even opened the trunk. I told the maid to leave it as it was.”

Richard smiled faintly. “I remember. You were healthy then. You rode, you swam, you ate heartily. You laughed.”

Her answering smile was wistful. “It was the best summer of my life. I never felt so well.” She grew pensive. “Perhaps I have been ill all these years because of those tonics. Richard… I am surprised I am not dead.”

He reached for her hand, enclosing it firmly in his. “You were very nearly dead,” he said softly.

But as he looked at her, really looked at Anne, Richard understood something had changed. The affection he had always felt for her, cousinly and unexamined, had grown in the space of a single day into something more profound, and the pity had given way to fierce protectiveness.

Later that evening, Richard sat alone in the dimly lit library, the fire burned low and steady, its glow casting long shadows upon the paneled walls. He leaned forward in the armchair, hands loosely clasped, and let his thoughts turn to Anne.

All day she had been in his care, frail, pale, yet with a spark in her that had caught him unawares.

He had always considered her a gentle cousin to be pitied, but now…

now he saw her as something more. Her eyes, warm and intelligent despite her illness, had met his with a trust that stirred a deep chord in him.

He had felt it when her small hands had closed over his as he held the cup, and again when her laughter, soft and genuine, had surprised him.

Guilt weighed on him for not seeing sooner the years of neglect, or worse, that had kept her in such a state.

Darcy’s suspicions now felt entirely too plausible, and the thought chilled him.

If Lady Catherine’s misguided zeal, or her pride, or her malice had indeed kept Anne unwell, then he would see to it she never had the power to do so again.

He leaned back, jaw set, his decision formed.

Whatever bond had been awakened between himself and Anne today, whether it was the beginning of a deep friendship or something rarer still, true love, he knew one thing with certainty: he would protect her from their aunt, from danger, from anything that might rob her of the chance to recover her health and live freely.

Richard sat before the fire, the flames casting shadows across the library floor. His gaze was fixed, unseeing, upon the shifting embers as the weight of the day pressed upon him. The sound of a firm tread broke the quiet; the door opened, and Darcy entered.

“Richard, how is Anne?”

Richard looked up, his expression grave.

“She is improved. Anne drank water unaided and took a little broth. She was coherent and even remembered the summer we three spent at Pemberley. She told me it was the only time she could recall feeling truly well. Lady Catherine had sent her with her medicines, but Anne refused them, and she was healthy all summer. Darcy… perhaps you are right. Perhaps my aunt has been slowly poisoning her daughter, whether through malice or blind folly, I cannot say.”

Darcy’s face hardened, the firelight striking sharp planes across his features. “When she is strong enough to travel, we must remove her from here without delay. Only away from Rosings can she be safe enough to recover. Do you agree?”

“I do,” Richard replied, his voice low but resolute. “I will take her in my aunt’s own carriage and deliver her to my mother at Matlock House. I shall remain there rather than lodge at the barracks, so I may watch over her myself. Dr. Russell will be at hand, should we require him.”

“How soon?” Darcy asked.

“The sooner the better,” Richard said, leaning forward. “I fear my aunt’s temper may drive her to violence. You saw how she flung that vase at you.”

Darcy gave a short laugh. “I should have to be very lame indeed to have been injured today. But what might she do to Anne, when her rage is turned upon her?”

Richard agreed. “Fortunately, the vase was heavy and our aunt is weak, but she could still harm Anne when she is asleep or insensible with fever. I fear our aunt has spent years keeping our cousin ill. If Anne is well enough to travel tomorrow, I will have a bed made up for her in Aunt Catherine’s largest carriage and take her away from here. ”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “We shall remain a few days longer, to give Lydia the opportunity of visiting with Mary and Charlotte. The road to London is no more than fifty miles, and you can be at Matlock House before nightfall.”

Richard inclined his head. “I will not leave her side until we have departed. I have moved my things into the chamber next to hers, and Mrs. Jenkinson knows she may summon me at any hour, day, or night.”

As Darcy departed, Richard remained before the fire, his mind turning over the information Anne had given him. Whatever the cause, whether intentional or not, he knew only this: Anne must be protected, and he would be the one to see it done.